


Perish in the Storm

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Series: Johnlock Trope Challenge [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Challenge Response, Implied Sexual Content, Johnlock Trope Challenge, Kissing, M/M, One Shot, Sexual Tension, Snowed In, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 14:02:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1781659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock are in the Italian Alps for a case, and, of course, get snowed in. Some firelight and whiskey warm things up.</p><p>For Day 13 of the Johnlock Trope Challenge: Snowed In</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perish in the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Just a note that this is a series of one-shots for a challenge and these stories will be wildly different in style and tone as I try out some new things. They aren't meant to connect to each other in any way. There's a 48-hour window to write and submit these, so results may vary!

They had climbed the mountain road in the hired Land Rover, passing small villages, ski resorts, and farms tucked among the drifts in rolling valleys. Sherlock was driving, his hands clad in leather gloves competently handling the steering wheel on the icy track as John studied the map, looking for the road that would lead to the villa where they were supposed to meet the client. 

They were on a case, one involving a deceased eccentric uncle and family members squabbling over his not insignificant inheritance. Their job was to locate artwork that had gone missing shortly after the uncle’s death.

It had started snowing a half hour ago, and John held his phone, trying unsuccessfully to pull up a weather forecast or radar map. “That’s it, no service,” he announced with a sigh, putting his phone away. He peered out the window at the falling snow and darkening sky. “We should be getting close now.”

Sherlock didn’t answer, cast a short glance at John, unperturbed. After a few more kilometers, a sign post appeared and they turned left onto an even narrower road. Within a few minutes the glowing lights from a house set into the hillside became visible, and they turned up the long drive.

John was relieved to have arrived. He was tired, hungry, and stiff from sitting for hours. The cold of the outside air hit him with a shock and he hunched his shoulders against the biting wind as they approached the front door. Before they had a chance to knock, the door swung open and a stocky older woman with a dour face stood blocking the doorway.

“Mr Holmes and Dr Watson?” she asked.

“Yes, here to see Miss De Luca.”

“She’s not here. She sends her apologies. The storm is delaying her until at least tomorrow evening. I’m to show you to your rooms,” she said curtly.

Charming lady, John thought sarcastically as they followed her inside.

“I’ve set out a cold dinner in the kitchen, just through there. Your rooms are at the top of the stairs. I must leave now to be home with my grandson.” She pulled on her coat, clearly in a hurry to go.

“Er, just how bad is the storm supposed to be?” John asked as she gathered her handbag.

“Bad. Very bad. It’s good you arrived when you did. Many have perished in such storms. Good evening, gentlemen.” With that, she left, the heavy wooden door closing with a thud.

John exchanged a half-amused glance with Sherlock. “That was ominous,” John said. “Looks like we have the run of the place.” He pulled off his coat and headed to the kitchen while Sherlock walked slowly throughout the house, his hands deep in his coat pockets.

He finally reappeared in the kitchen, where John had already tucked into a sandwich and cracked open a beer. Sherlock sat across from him, absently picked up a piece of bread.

“What are you thinking?” John asked.

“Hmm. The art they claim is missing doesn’t seem to fit with the rest of the collection in this house.”

“So? Maybe he branched out.”

“Just an observation.” He sliced off a wedge of cheese as John slid a bottle of beer over to him.

John then took the opportunity to look around the house, searching for a television. Nothing but a radio in the kitchen, and that was filled with static. He gave up, resigned to an early evening. He brought his things upstairs, randomly choosing one of the rooms whose doors had been left open. It was chilly, and he saw that wood for a fire had been laid out earlier. Now that was a nice touch, he thought, kneeling down to check the flue, add kindling, adjust a log, strike a match. He blew on the small flame, coaxing it until it caught, flaring up.

“You’re quite the scout,” Sherlock said from the doorway, giving John a start.

“I’ve done some camping in my day,” John admitted, brushing his hands off. The wind howled outside, the panes rattled, and the lights went out.

“Oh... shit,” John said after a moment.

“Well, there’s nothing to be done,” Sherlock said, striding into the room. “I did find a very good scotch, however.” He held up a bottle and two glasses. “I’m sure our host wouldn’t mind.”

He passed by a bookshelf, then stopped. “Oh, and look. Cluedo or chess?”

“Definitely not Cluedo.”

They pulled two chairs and a small table close to the fire, set up the board, passed the time with tumblers of whiskey and arguments about the strategy behind moves.

“That’s ill-advised,” Sherlock warned as John’s hand hovered over a piece.

“It’s the element of surprise.”

"But not a surprise that you’ll lose.”

“That you’ll lose your rook, you mean.”

Sherlock leaned forward, then frowned. “Oh.”

John captured the rook, then reached over, threw another log onto the fire, sparks flying up. “Your move.”

The game ended in a stalemate, but after several more fingers of scotch, neither really cared. John set the table aside, stretched his legs out in front of the flames. “What time is it?”

Sherlock looked at his watch, the crystal gleaming in the firelight. “Nearly midnight.”

They settled into a comfortable silence, both listening to the wind and the hiss of snow being driven against the glass.

“I used to hate snow,” Sherlock said.

“Really? Why?”

He shrugged. “Too cold. I’m always cold as it is.”

“But you don’t mind it now?”

“I like the quiet. How it muffles everything when it’s freshly fallen and deep, unmarked.”

John smiled. “Now who’s the romantic?” he asked.

Sherlock kept his eyes on his glass. “It is rather nice, though, being snowed in like this…”

John, still smiling, looked at Sherlock’s profile, trying to read his expression. “It is,” he agreed. “Nice and… cozy.” He sensed a change in the atmosphere, something intimate sliding toward a tension that was unexpected but not unwelcome. He was keenly aware of how close they were, how the light played over Sherlock's fingers and the curve of his cheekbones. The fire crackled, and a log shifted, suddenly falling into two halves onto the embers.

Maybe he was just a little bit drunk, John realized as he stood up to grab another chunk of wood, his head spinning. He bent over to place the log on top of the grate, and as he straightened, he was stunned to find Sherlock’s hands pulling at his jumper, dragging him closer, his mouth being covered with those perfect lips he had memorized in more ways than he cared to admit.

He found himself quickly adjusting from shock to eager response, his hands sliding up to sink into the curls at the back of Sherlock’s neck, his jumper bunched in Sherlock’s fists, his heart racing. Surely Sherlock could feel that, his heart ramming against his chest.

Language didn’t form in his head anymore, nothing apart from the phrase _I want this I want this_ , and he let his muscles and bones and desire talk for him, let them lead a surprisingly willing Sherlock to the bed.

Sherlock’s hands were cold, he noticed, cold because of the snow. He would warm him, slide his clothes off, cover him with his own body, raise his temperature, skin to skin, make his blood run hot.

It could snow all night, he didn’t care. Let the world perish in the storm, but let them have this room and this fire and these shadows and finally, this moment.


End file.
